Motoring along scenic Route One, one is captivated by the splash of color all around--the greens of summer have been banished to the nether reaches, and have been replaced by the none-too-familiar browns, auburns, mauves, and, ah yes, reds and yellows which have come to be associated with that most happy time of year--the fall foliage season.
Chipmunks graze in roadside thickets; grey playful squirrels forage for nuts--the staff of life during the winter. Denuded of their pristine leaves, the poplars and maples stand in silent testimonial to Life, and the termination and renewal thereof.
The hoarfrost glistens on your three-day growth of beard as you park your Honda in front of the Orpheum. Random leaves, pages from the Good Book of Earthly and Other-Earthly bounty, are strewn about you as you assume your place at the end of the autumnal queue. "Good day, fellow concert patron," you intone with pious conviction. "How many of these crisp, green bills need I fork over to gain entrance to this Mighty Fortress?"
It matters little how much it will cost. For it is autumn, and, however beautiful, man knows that he does not live by foliage alone. To be renewed, to be properly inscribed in the Book of Life for the coming year, he must drink from the God-given elixir that is Rock.
The Blue Oyster Cult, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Frank Zappa, Lou Reed, Arlo Guthrie, they are truly the harbingers of autumn. It matters little whom you choose; the Pilgrims at Plymouth partook indiscriminately of foods both familiar and exotic--maize and corn, turkey and chicken-dogs; it mattered little. Having partaken of the fruits of the earth, having experienced the God-given bounties of the soil, they were renewed. And surely they fancied themselves well-girt against the cruel winter that followed. And they blessed Plymouth, and not surprisingly, they called it Plymouth Rock. Later,
